


Night Falls

by Fedoraman



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, F/M, King's Landing, Multi, The Long Night, War, White Walkers, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-03-02 19:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18817285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fedoraman/pseuds/Fedoraman
Summary: Arya's last minute attack on the Night King fails and Winterfell is overrun. With few survivors, the hope of humanity now depends on old enemies truly becoming allies against the Dark.





	1. The Three Eyed Wolf

It had all been so quick. 

Theon's last final war cry had still been echoing in Bran's ears when the Night King had advanced from the ranks of his White Walkers. The ghostly figure had approached him at an almost leisurely pace, his eyes locked on the wheelchair bound boy that sat before the great heart tree of Winterfell's Godswood.The expression on his emaciated features was unreadable but Bran could tell, in those blue eyes, there was victory. 

He knew the expression well. He had seen it in the eyes of Karl Tanner, the Ironborn who had stormed his home, Robert Baratheon as he strode away from the crumpled body of Rhaegar in the rapids of the Trident. Even Aegon the Conqueror as he and his sisters looked down upon the burning remnants of the Gardener and Lannister armies from their dragons.

Bran could hear the sound of dragons now. The pained and angry screams of Drogon echoed in the sky as hundreds of wights swarmed and stabbed at his flesh, with the pain persisting no matter how many he shook off. Rhaegal had crashed somewhere out in the fields with a great pained yelp. There was another closer sound, the warbling screeching roars of Viserion, no doubt tearing through the castle's defender as he sat here. 

The rider of the undead dragon stopped just short of Bran, glowering over the young Stark before slowly, ever so slowly, reaching his hand up to the hilt of the sword on his back.

_He carried an axe of ice the last time. Perhaps he wants to make it quick._

It had been quick for Theon. Just a simple thrust and the head of his broken spear had pierced his breastplate and gone through his chest. 

_A good man... perhaps that gave him some peace. It is the least I could I do for him._

Finally the Night King wrapped his fingers around the hilt of sword, ready to wrench it free and put an end to this whole fight. All the while, Bran held his stare at his would be killer. 

_A shame it had to come to this..._

Then everything happened at once. A new sound emerged above the distant clashing of sword and the screams of men. A woman's scream. Arya's scream.

Falling through the air, the young assassin aimed her dagger of Valyrian steel squarely at the Night King's back, yelling a war cry not unlike Theon before her. 

And like Theon she failed. Her cry died in her throat as her target turned in the blink of an eye and caught her with one hand, fingers wrapping themselves around her neck in an iron hold. Arya could only let out one choking gasp before there came a terrible snap, like a slavers whip cracking through the air. The young Stark girl's body sagged in the ancient beings grip as all her life escaped her form. The dagger, which just a few seconds before was poised to bring an end to the Great War in one night, clattered from her limp fingers.

She was dropped with little ceremony, letting her body crumple into the snow. Her eyes were closed, lips parted slightly as if about to speak. For a moment she almost looked peaceful.  

Then with a raise of both her killers arms, she stood up. The young girls eyes shone a piercing blue as she lurched to her feet. Once Bran might have felt relief at the sight of his sister coming back from the dead but once he had climbed and ran. He knew better now. He knew that the thing that stood before him now, staring blankly, was not Arya Stark. She was gone. Now only a shell remained.

The Night King turned back to Bran, no longer hiding the victorious smirk on his face. 

Without a sound, the sword slung over the undead kings shoulder was drawn free of its scabbard. It's icy blade shone bright in the light of the burning wights that surrounded the weirwood. It took only a few more steps before the demon of winter was standing completely over him, staring. 

Bran stared straight back, unblinking and uncompromising. Surprisingly he felt no anger in his heart, no yearning to scream out in anguish. There was no sadness either, not for Arya, Jon or Sansa. All Bran Stark felt at that moment was nothing. 

The sword was raised. 

With a slight cock of his head, the Night King looked down on his enemy.

Bran spoke, one last time. 

"This won't end it. You know this".

The sword was swung.

And he flew.

 


	2. Daenerys

The snow was getting heavier now.

All around Daenerys, falling in waves were legions of biting white flakes, flying into her eyes and making her blink and look away from the sky to her front. This storm had been raging since she had taken off from the battlefield of Winterfell, leaving behind her army, her khalasar, her friends, her... lover... and nephew. 

 _"No! I can't think of him, not now. Focus on the skies, you are a dragon, just fly"._  

So fly she did, rough as it was. Her arms still ached from swinging that sword and could barely hold onto the spines that grew from the dragons back. There was also the fact that her dragon was injured, the sound of air whistling through the ragged hole in his left wing an ever-present reminder of that. Finally, not helping matters was that she had never rode this child of hers before. 

Rhaegal gave a soft growl as the sheets of snowflakes smattered over his scales and found their way into his own eyes. He shook his large head, the growl turning into a roar. 

 _"An irritation is the last thing he needs with all the pain he's in"._ What could she do though? Try to wipe the snow from his pupils? 

Instead of such a drastic measure, the Queen instead opted to press her cheek against the warm scales of Rhaegal's neck and keep her eyes shut tight, just trying to take comfort in the fact that for the first time in hours, she was somewhat safe.

_"Because of Rhaegal... and Ser Jorah"._

Sweet Ser Jorah. Her Bear. The last of her Queensguard, dying the way any Knight would want: defending his lady. 

The feeling of his warm breath on her cheek and the tears shining in his eyes were still repeating themselves over and over in her mind, along with every moment of the battle, all at once, an endless parade of fire and death and screams. A nightmare, one that matter how hard she tried, she couldn't wake up from. 

She had been left alone down there, surrounded by corpses, those ones walking and those not. The figures illuminated in the orange glow of the flame from the now useless trench had advanced on her at a shambling gait, weapons of all kinds gripped in their rotting hands. She had dropped her own sword when Jorah had fallen, the fight now forgotten.

Her first thought had been that she was to die down there, amongst the remnants of her closest friend and the army she had freed and then lead into slaughter. It had come close too it. One of the wights, dressed in a faded red surcoat with the broken chains of House Umber still visible on its chest, had raised an axe expectedly. 

Only to be met with a stream of dragon fire. The gaggle of undead was burnt to a crisp and with an earth shaking thud the unmistakable form of a dragon landed in front of Dany. 

 _"Drogon"._ She had thought at once before seeing how smaller this dragon was compared to the largest of her children. Then in the glowing fires of the battlefield, she could see the emerald green scales and the frills and wings the colour of beaten bronze.  _"Rhaegal"._

Almost at once, Daenerys had climbed atop her child's back. With just a few beats of his wings, Rhaegal had carried her away back into the night sky.

From there, the whole of Winterfell could be seen. _"And what a sight it was"_. A bitter thought crossed her mind.

The scene could only be described as hellish. Fires raged all over both the field and the castle. Everywhere she looked she could see men trying and failing to stand their ground. For every wight they killed, another took its place, just as fierce and terrifying as the last. The unmistakable hulking figures of giants lumbered through the waves of smaller creatures, knocking aside whole groups of armoured men and women with a single swipe of their massive clubs. Then there was a flash of blue in another part of the ancient Northern fortress and Dany saw with dread that the monster that had once been Viserion was spewing blue fire and incinerating the terrified defenders. 

Any hope for some kind of miraculous victory was quenched at that moment. The Targareyn just felt a sense of numbness washing over her, barely even noticing as Rhaegal began to fly away from the scene of their defeat. 

All of their plans... all of their prayers... 

Rhaegal letting out another roar snatched her away from these morose thoughts, and she saw they were slowly beginning to descend from the clouds, the drakes wings cracking through the freezing air. Down below, lit by a thousand torches, was the largest city in the North: White Harbour. 

They flew low over the walls and Daenerys could hear the shocked cries from the guards that manned them. The few citizens still out at this time of the night, mostly drunken sailors, gave equally petrified gasps and cries. The Dragon Queen paid them all no mind, she was only focused on the great white castle perched on the hill overlooking the rest of the port city. Even in the dark she could spot the merman banner of House Manderly flying from the highest tower. 

The green dragon touched down in the castle's courtyard to the scream of a passing servant. This brought a whole host of guards running down in to the yard, all of whom levelled their tridents at the dragon and silver haired queen now standing in their keep. 

A guttural growl left Rhaegal's throat at the armour clad men surrounding them. This only served to frighten them all the more and tighten their grips around their weapons. 

 _"Idiots! They're only agitating him"._ Dany thought. She could see the terror in their eyes and knew that such fear made people do rash things. Rash things such as hurling a trident at a dragon.

Before it could come to that however, a figure pushed past the line of guardsmen. Which wasn't difficult, as this figure was rather... large. 

"What in the name of the Seven's all this racket?" He yelled out in a booming voice, before his eyes rested on the sight in front of him.

"Lord Manderly", Daenerys greeted, swinging her leg over Rhaegal's neck and gently jumping down from her dragons back. 

He replied in a rather choked voice, "Y-Your Grace, my apologies for - uh- greeting you in such a way". 

"It's forgiven, my Lord", Came the measured response from the queen. She could now, in the light of the braziers crackling in the corners of the yard, see the Lord of White Harbour. "I'm sure you didn't expect to be awoken this early".

Wyman Manderly had obviously just been stirred from his bed, with his head of white hair ungroomed and beard all in a tangle. He wore a large sea blue dressing gown over his round belly and the only thing protecting his feet from the blisteringly cold snow were a pair of loose fitted boots. 

"No, no, I can't say I did". The lord looked to his sides where his men still had their weapons aimed squarely at his Queen. He quickly barked out, "Put down your weapons, imbeciles, unless you'd like a night in the Wolf's Den!" At that command (and threat) each man lowered his trident before standing to attention. He then looked back. "Now, might I ask what has brung you here in such... circumstances?"

Daenerys took a step toward the noble and then realised just how tired she was. The adrenaline had worn off and now her body ached for the sweet warmth of a bed. "I- Could we please discuss this in the keep, my Lord?" 

Manderly gave vigorous nod before motioning past himself to where the great oak doors to his keep stood. "Please, come in".

As she began to walk forward, Rhaegal made to follow his mother, as if he planned to just squeeze his bulk through the doors and make himself at home. Just the act of him putting a wing forward made the guards jolt their weapons up and Lord Wyman to take a step back. "Uh... I'm afraid your dragon will have to find somewhere else to-" He struggled to find the right word for a moment "-rest".

"Very well. I don't want him outside the city's walls though". After Drogon, she was taking no more chances. 

The lord looked lost for a moment, brow creased in thought as he evidently wondered where to put this creature of legend and myth in his city before another voice spoke up. 

"Put him in the old Godswood".

Coming from the keep was a stout and tall man, a grey beard covering his face and equally grey eyes looking over the scene in front of him. He wore a loose fitting night shirt and breeches, a pair of cracked leather boots on his feet. A sword belt was also cinched at his waist with the blade still sitting in its scabbard. 

_"Lord Manderly's cousin. What was his name?"_

Lord Wyman gave a curt nod to this newcomer. "Marlon, I didn't expect you to be up".

The tall man gave a deep frown. "It would be hard not to be, with all the noise out here". His eyes then looked to the observing Dany. "Queen Daenerys, I bid you welcome back to White Harbour". 

"Thank you. Ser... Marlon isn't it? When I first sailed here I met you briefly on the docks".

The old knight bowed his head. "It was a pleasure, however short, Your Grace".

She gave him a brief polite smile. "You mentioned a Godswood?"

"Yes, Your Majesty, in the Wolf's Den. An old castle that was converted into a prison by my ancestors".

That piece of information earned a raise of her eyebrows. "You believe a prison the best place to keep one of my children safe?"

Before Ser Marlon could reply, his cousin jumped back into the conversation. "It is safe, I assure you Your Grace. Besides even if it wasn't, what could a pack of vermin like the ones we keep in there do to a dragon?"

Her mind flashed back to Drogon, a swarm of undead crawling all over his body and stabbing wherever could be stabbed.  _"They weren't people though, not anymore. They knew no fear"._ Men knew though. With a small sigh, the Queen gave a nod. Lord Manderly gave a surprisingly white smile before turning to his guards and roaring out new orders.

"Right, you lot, stop gawping and get back to your duties. Rouse the cooks and serving girls as well, tell them to get their Queen some food and drink!"

"And meat for Rhaegal". Daenerys piped in as she walked past him, the dragon in question lifting off with a few hard flaps of his wings. 

"And some meat for... for the dragon.  Go on, hop to it!"

And so not thirty minutes later, Daenerys found herself supping on porridge sweetened with golden honey in the great hall of the New Castle. Lord Manderly had decided not to seat himself on his lordly throne at the head of hall, instead opting to squeeze onto a bench across from her. He too had a bowl of porridge and was digging into it rather more vigorously than his guest. She couldn't bring herself to eat more than a single spoonful. The oats were too thick, the honey too sweet, her nerves too frayed.

Instead of eating, Dany focused on the sky outside the windows of the great hall. As she had sat and waited for her breakfast to come, she watched as the pitch black of the cloud covered sky slowly began to lighten, to a still dismal grey until coming to a pale white. The snows still fell, albeit more gently than the maelstrom that had chilled her and Rhaegal to the bone the night before.

 _"Morning"_. She thought to herself. Despite their defeat, the Long Night hadn't come again. Not yet.

The sound of the doors creaking open and the clanking of metal on the floorboards drew her attention away from her own thoughts.

Ser Marlon stood in front of her in a shining suit of silver plate armour that more befit the commander of the city guard, a helm under one arm with the crest topping it wrought in the shape of a merman, raising his trident to the sky.

"Your Grace, I have doubled the guard in the Wolf's Den and placed several in front of the door to the Godswood, as per your orders".

"And Rhaegal has his food?"

"He does. Two whole goats I believe, straight from the kitchens".

"Good. What about the riders?" 

"I've ordered them to patrol along the stretch of the Kingsroad and countryside nearest to here. If there are any survivors, they'll find them".

The booming voice of Lord Manderly cut in. "I've also had the maester send his fastest raven to Castle Cerwyn to tell any remnants holed up there to make for White Harbour immediately".

At that moment, Dany let some relief fill her heart. It was a small relief but it was sweet nonetheless. "Thank you both. I assure you House Targareyn and the Crown will never forget the debt it owes to House Manderly".

Lord Wyman let out a deep chuckle. "Ah, we were only doing our duty. After you told us what happened at Winterfell... well, we'd be damned fools to just ignore it". 

Ser Mandon made to leave. "I must beg my leave, Your Majesty, I intend to strengthen the number of men on the walls and on patrol on the streets. We must have order when the dead come".

Daenerys gave a nod. "Very well. I think I will retire to this bed you offer me Lord Manderly. Inform me if any remnants are brought in or Rhaegal becomes agitated or if...  _they_ come".

The rotund lord gave a solemn nod. "Of course, My Queen".

She was lead up the stairs to her room by a serving girl, who both opened and closed the door to her room for her. The bedroom was large and no doubt contained a large variety of amenities and lavish decorations in it, though it mattered little. She could barely tell what anything was through this fog of exhaustion. It blurred her vision, made her movements more sluggish than they had ever been and dragged her eyelids down like they had anvils tied to them. 

She barely managed to shrug off her boots and coat before crawling under the heavy cloth and fur covers. It barely took a second before the heavy blanket of sleep finally descended on the Mother of Dragons.


	3. Jaime

Run.

The only word in his mind.

Run.

One of the only words that mattered. 

Cersei. 

That was another. 

Jaime could feel his body scream at him to stop, to slow down, to  _rest_. His lungs ached for more than a few ragged huffs of air, his body felt ready to drop under the heavy weight of his armour and the dagger at his belt, his good arm felt like it too was made of gold with the strain of carrying Widow's Wail and his legs... his legs felt as though they were about to collapse beneath him. He just wanted to stop. 

He couldn't oblige that though. Instead he kept on huffing, kept himself upt and kept his legs moving through the snow. 

The world around him was a haze, a sea of mist and snowflakes dancing in the air. In front of him was darkness and behind the clouds sat, red and angry from the hundreds of fires covering Winterfell. The old Northern fortress was out of sight now, though hardly out of mind. He could still faintly hear the roars of the dragon, the dead one, no doubt liberally adding to the fire. 

_"A dragon in the service of an army that dies from fire... what a joke"._

Now was no time for such observations, he knew already, but it was made all the more clear by his companion. 

"Come on Jaime! We've got to keep moving!" Brienne's harsh voice echoed out. 

The Maid of Tarth was running just in front of him, her own breaths short and rapid as she turned back to look at him. Her milky skin was blotched with dried dark blotches of blood, her own blood, courtesy of a rather nasty scratch to her temple. Amongst all this darkness, her eyes shone with determination. The same determination he had seen before, when they had tramped across half of Westeros just get him back to King's Landing. Back to Cersei. 

"I know!" He cried back. "You just keep your eyes forward!" 

"Watch our backs then!" 

The further they ran, the more dark it soon became. The inferno at Winterfell faded into the cold black of the night and now they were at the mercy of their surroundings. 

With a choked gasp, Brienne ran full pelt into a tree. With a skid of his boots on the ground, Jaime bumped into her back, nearly toppling them both over. A string of curses escaped both their lips as the two knights pulled themselves up from the ground. 

"Bloody mist..." Jaime murmured to himself, now seeing the tall and strong forms of pine trees surrounding them. "Barely even saw them".

"Forget about the trees, just get moving!" Brienne ordered. "We've got to get away before -"

The last words died in the woman's throat as a sound echoed through the trees. A sound Jaime was familiar with and, despite his best efforts, felt send a jolt of shivers down his back. The howls of wolves.

Suddenly he found himself back at the Whispering Wood, riding atop his war horse and garbed head to toe in his old suit of Lannister plate armour with a cloak of pure white hung around his shoulders. That was how that mess had started- with the howl of Robb Stark's wolf. That had been the Northmen's signal to unleash a volley of arrows onto his men and for their cavalry to sweep down on the now weakened flanks. He had glimpsed the wolf in battle, after having just got done removing some Northern Knights head from his shoulders. The great beast had its teeth firmly embedded in the neck of Dontin Fallton, one of Casterly Rock's best captains. That had been when he spotted the Young Wolf himself from across the field and made the fool charge that earned him a few months in Riverrun's dungeon.

Now here it was again, reverberating through the trees like a war horn. 

There was something else though. The Stark wolf's how had been strong and steady and these... these were warbling and laced with undertone of what could only be pain. 

"What's wrong with them?" Jaime murmured, not expecting an answer. 

Brienne stepped up beside him, looking out across the forest surrounding them. "The White Walkers... they can raise anything... not just people". 

The two knights glanced at one another. Then they ran. 

The howls ended soon after but Jaime kept on, sprinting through the blizzard with his heart pounding in his ears. 

_"Nothing like the threat of death to give you a boost of speed"._

The hilt of Widow's Wail was gripped in his real hand and its brother was gripped equally as tight by Brienne, both of the Valyrian steel swords flashing black and red in the occasional sliver of moonlight that peeked out from between the snow laden clouds above. Both swords had been the bane of many wights that night. He also had a dagger of regular steel at his belt, for all the good it would if he lost his sword. 

Jaime didn't know how long they ran or how far. The forest eventually thinned to just a few sparse they trees and then to just empty fields. In that time they passed many poor souls like themselves, northmen, wildlings, Vale knights and the occasional Unsullied in their spiked helmets. Each time, Brienne would give them a slap on the back and urge them on, encouraging them all to keep on moving. 

But there were those who were too far gone. They trudged forward, aimless and ignorant to all things happening around them, barely clutching their weapons in limp hands. Brienne did the same to them as she had for the others only to be met with silence and an empty stare. It had been up to him to pull her away from them before she began to shout. 

Wretches like those were common after every battle, those left deaf and dumb by their experiences. There had been hundreds after the Sack of King's Landing, all dragging themselves from the city's gates. These were the same, too lost in everything they had seen to do anything but walk and stare.

_“Now if only we could both see this...”_

They were passing by another when they were caught.

He was young, the gambeson he wore almost too big for his skinny body. His green eyes were wide and full of terror as he turned at the sound of their footfalls, dragonglass dagger raised.

"No!" Brienne cried, raising her free hand. "We're not dead". 

The boy was shaking but he kept his weapon raised. "You stay back... both of you... I-I'll kill you, I will!" 

Jaime stepped in front of Brienne and shot his arm out, grabbing a hold of the crazed boys wrist before speaking. "Calm down,  _now_ ". 

Their stare lasted for just a few moments but Jaime could see it all in the eyes that looked into his own, all the blood and terror of the night. Then the lad crumpled, his legs seeming to give out from under him and falling forward only to be caught before hitting the ground. 

His racking sobs were muffled by Jaime's brigandine but it was obvious his shaking wasn't just from the cold. The Kingslayer could feel Brienne's eyes on him and glanced to where she stood, looking over the boy with pity. Jaime knew then she was thinking of her squire. They had lost sight of Podrick when they fought their away out of Winterfell, cutting through wights left and right as the castle burned.

Brienne had called out his name as they were swept along by a throng of fleeing soldiers. That was until more wights had come swarming through the shattered gates, led by lumbering undead giants. The sound of the dead dragon letting out another ear piercing roar was the straw that broke the mules back. It hadn't been an organized retreat, far from it, but they still managed to get through the rear gates. If Brienne had cried Jaime had not seen.

The tears that _were_ now staining Jaime's armour were petering out. The young soldier must have then realised what he was doing because he roughly pushed himself away before knuckling his eyes dry. 

 _"Barely more than sixteen and already fighting in battle. Who am I to talk though? I had already killed sveveral by the time I was his age"._ Those had been men though, outlaws or no, not the monsters they were running from now. Suddenly a memory of the Smiling Knight cackling while running through a goldcloak with a sword came to his mind.  _"Well, I suppose there were a few exceptions to that"._

"I-I'm sorry ser, I don't... I shouldn't have done that". He said shakily. 

With a slap on the lads arm, Jaime spoke reassuringly. "It's alright. What's your name?"

"Devan, ser, my name's Devan". He informed them.

Brienne spoke up, stepping forward. "Devan, when you escaped from Winterfell did you see a lad with dark hair in red leathers? Podrick Payne, my squire".

The young man shook his head. "No, my lady, I don't think so but I wasn't really looking. I'm sorry if that didn't help".

A deep and resigned sigh left Brienne's lips and she bowed her head. "It's alright. Come, you should stay with us, it's not safe out here". 

He looked eager enough, Jaime noted, as Devan gave a vigorous nod.  _"Two knights with Valyrian steel in their hands, who wouldn't want to stick with them?"_

They set out as one across the frozen fields, now devoid of all it's cattle and their owners with the snow still keeping up, though at a lighter volume compared to how it had been. The mist was ever present as well. Jaime was particularly thankful for that, not eager to have to tramp through a Northern storm. 

Devan was suddenly at Jaime's side. "Ser, I just wanted to ask- where are we running to?"

"Anywhere that's not Winterfell". Jaime replied simply. 

"Yes but... well we can't run all night". 

Brienne piped in from the front. "He's right, Jaime. We'll make for Castle Cerwyn".

An audible sigh of relief came from young Devan then. "Thank the Old Gods. My village is near there". He jabbed a thumb to the battleaxe sigil sewn on the breast of his gambeson. 

"I wouldn't stay there long. Get your family to make for White Harbour if you can". Advised Jaime. 

The lad was obviously uncomfortable with the idea of his liege lord being dismissed so blithely. Peasants often had such a strange relationship with their lords, hating them one minute and fiercely loyal the next. Brienne obviously thought the same as her fellow knight. 

"You'd do well to listen to Jaime. If Winterfell can fall in a night, Castle Cerwyn won't last but a few hours at most". 

“Well, I’m sure if we hunker down and fight hard we could-“ Devin began to reason, seemingly to both of his companions and maybe to himself as well.

“Die. You'll all die if you try to defend that castle. It would be better for everyone if Lord Cerwyn just gathered the men he has left and his smallfolk and head south or go to White Harbour". 

Devan seemed to consider what the Lannister had said for a moment. "I suppose you're ri-"

The beast fell upon Devan then, pouncing out from the mist and falling on the boy with a snarl. The peasant levy barely had time to let out a strangled scream before his throat was torn out and blood flooded his mouth. Jaime spun on his heel, eyes widening at the sight of the boy he had just been talking to getting mauled and widening even further at  _what_ was mauling him. 

It was a wolf, or at least it had been a wolf. A great cut had torn through its side, maybe by a spear, and left its soft insides exposed for all the world to see. Jaime could see the white of its ribs and the pink of its guts while its grey fur was darkened with what could only be gallons of long dried blood, with fresher blood now dripping from its maw. The brightest feature of the monster were its eyes which shone the same piercing blue as the rest of its fellow wights. 

Brienne's yell broke this stunned silence and she charged past, Oathkeeper lashing out in a blur. 

The undead wolf leapt away from the dying boy, giving a warbling growl at the lady knight. Brienne, in turn, stepped over Devan's already long gone body, levelling Oathkeeper and preparing for what came next. She wouldn't be alone for long as Jaime ran up beside, presenting Widow's Wail as well. 

With a growl, the wight wolf began to circle them. Jaime didn't lash out, opting instead to keep up a defensive stance. A glance behind him confirmed that Brienne had decided to do the same, not lashing out as she had done just a few moments earlier.

A snarl erupted from the dead hounds maw and it lunged forward, snapping its jaws at Jaime. With a deft step to the side, the Lannister sliced up with his sword, cutting through the wolf's dead flesh instantly. At the merest touch of Valyrian steel, the undead creature collapsed, its flesh and fur seemingly falling from its bones and falling to the snow in a heap with nary a whimper from its bloody jaws.  

"Was that it?" Jaime said aloud. Barely more than a single move, he hadn't even broke a sweat.  

"I think you're about to get your answer..." Brienne intoned, turning him around with a tug of his shoulder.

Through the darkness shone dozens of pairs of shining blue eyes. Just like their first attacker, these wolves sported a variety of wounds, from cuts and gashes to whole chunks of their bodies torn off. The worst had its belly torn open, with pink strands of guts dangling from its insides. As one, the pack of undead wolves began to circle the two of them, occasionally snapping out or growling a threat. 

"Keep steady..." Brienne spoke, pressing her back to Jaime's. 

"You don't have to remind me". 

Then, the whole pack lunged forward and the dance began. 

Like any dance, they paired off with their own partners at first. Jaime found himself facing down three of the monsters. He had never faced wolves before, much as he would have liked to have been the one to finally slay Robb Starks pet. They lunged, snapped at his legs and tried to wrap their fangs around his arms. In fact one did at a point. A wolf with a great wet wound in place of one of its eyes leapt up and Jaime felt a great stinging of pain as it bit through the leather on his arm. That earned the wight wolf a sword through its chest. 

Through the snarls and growls of his enemies, he could also hear the tell tale grunts and howls from Brienne. A glance swiftly confirmed what he had already suspected: Like him, she was on the defensive and the scatterings of canine bones littering the snow covered ground was a good indicator of how things were going on her front. 

A new roar came from Jaime's right and he turned, only to be barrelled aside by a great hulking white... thing. He landed in the snow with a thump, his fingers losing their around the ornate hilt of Widow's Wail. With his world even more bleared, he looked up to see the rotting form of a bear, with fur as white as the snow he currently found himself lying face down in. A good portion of half of it's front and face had been torn off, revealing the straining pink muscles and pale skull underneath. It gave another bellow roar, even as the rider on its back stayed completely and utterly silent. 

The White Walker gazed down from its mount, narrowing its eyes as Brienne continued to battle with its hounds. It was then Jaime saw the slender blade it carried, a length of sharpened ice that shimmered in the moonlight lancing through the clouds. 

With eyes widening, the heir to Casterly Rock stumbled to his feet and shouted out the only word that came to mind. "WENCH!"

He barely got the word from his mouth when the monster and rider charged forward, its paws thudding against the ground. Brienne whirled around at his desperate call but she was only just raising her sword when the Others own cut through the air. Then came an unearthly shriek. 

 _"No, two shrieks"._ He suddenly realised. 

One was the sound of ice cutting through steel.

The other was Brienne's scream.

The Maid fell to one knee as the silvery shine of her breastplate was darkened by the trickles of blood beginning to roll down her side. She didn't drop her blade though, instead holding it even tighter.

The wight bear wheeled around, the ghostly figure on its back lifting it's sword up, as if to observe the dark red fluid now coating the length of the blade. Was there arrogance in those eyes? Satisfaction? Jaime couldn't tell. 

With a click of its masters heels, the bear was spurred forward into a lunging sprint and the ancient ice being raised its sword, ready to cut down the heir to Tarth with one final blow. Only that blow never came. Just as the dead bear was upon her, Brienne lurched to the side and then struck out with Oathkeeper. The Valyrian steel bit through the rotting flesh and bone of the animal's leg like a warmed knife through butter and instantly it collapsed in a heap. 

The Walker fell to the snow as its mount suddenly disintegrated from beneath, its sword clattering to the ground. The warrior of ice landed on its feet, stumbling a few steps. Then, it fixed a hard glare on Brienne before again picking up its weapon. 

With a rattling breath, Jaime followed its example and quickly snatched up Widow's Wail from where it lay collecting snow. A deep ache coursed through his side as he staggered to his feet he pushed it down and stumbled forward.

Dragon steel and ice clashed together and both of their wielders looked to one another, the former with determination and the latter with surprise. Several hard strikes sent the Walker back, away from the still slumped form of Brienne, just as Jaime intended. 

Just like its wolves, the White Walker fought hard and fast. Each blow it swung struck as hard as thunder and as swift as lightning, so much so that Jaime barely had time to react. It was the least he could to keep his sword up, meeting every strike and occasionally jabbing out his own. He had to be honest with himself though: he didn't favour his chances. A rare thing but it was true. This creature probably had a hundred more years and a hundred more battles on him and had probably fought more opponents than Jaime could ever hope to. It didn't help it had two hands to take advantage of. 

 _"Just one good hit though, if what Snow said is true"._ He hoped to the Gods that the bastard was right. 

It didn't look as though he would have the opportunity though as now it was the Walkers turn to drive him back, slashing and cutting. Each time their blades clashed, a high ring emanated through the field that made Jaime's teeth hurt. That sound came more and more as he was forced to take more and more steps back. Soon they were passing Brienne again, still just sat there. The sight of it almost made Jaime's heart drop until he saw the mists of breath leaving her mouth. 

 _"Too injured, maybe?"_ He bitterly thought to himself, even as he parried a blow aimed for his shoulder.  _"Oh Gods, I should've ran. Just gone as fast as I could. Maybe I could even run all the way back to King's Landing, give myself as a present for Cersei's victory over her enemies"._

They clashed swords again, pressed together in a test of strength, one that Jaime knew he would lose even with both hands. He had heard stories from the surviving men of the Nights Watch of White Walkers being strong enough to throw a full grown man as easily as throwing a stone. What could a man with a golden hand do against that?

Thrust a dagger into its face for one thing. Roughly gripping the hilt of his dagger with his golden hand, Jaime wrenched it free and swiftly stabbed it into the Walkers skeletal, lined face. As soon as the tip of the steel made contact with the Others flesh it simply slid from its cheek, leaving no injury. What it did do was send the ancient being reeling back. Then, with a simple push of his good hand Widow's Wail was thrust into the Others emaciated chest. 

A roar of pain burst from the Walker's gaping mouth and it quickly ripped itself from the Valyrian sword. Jaime's watched, wide eyed, as the flesh around the wound on the creatures chest began to crack like brittle glass. In just a few seconds, its whole body was fracturing into millions of pieces and then it abruptly shattered into a heap of icy shards. 

Jaime fell to one knee, using his sword to keep himself from falling into the snow as he knew that if he did then he would probably never get up again.

He half limped and half stumbled over to Brienne before falling down beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "It's done". 

Much to his relief, she looked up to him. That relief instantly turned into dread when he saw the fear on her face though. Looking down to, he saw where her hand was pressed against the thin wound along her waist. Though she had managed to stop the blood pour from getting too bad, it still oozed between her fingers and dripped down into the snow. 

"Damnit..." Jaime muttered to himself. He was a fool to have thought that it wouldn't be as bad as it was, he knew that, but he had hoped all the same.  _"Just another mistake to add to the list"._

"Get away from here Jaime". Brienne suddenly ordered, resignation clear in her voice and on her face. "There'll be more coming, I'm sure of it".

Her command hung in the air for a few moments. 

_"Just run away Kingslayer, run all the way back to your queen"._

Jaime got to his feet with a spat out curse, trying to ignore the twinges in his side and then stuck out his gilded hand. "Come on".

He got a look of surprise in return. "Don't be an idiot. We're both injured, I'll just slow you down".

"Not if we get to Kingsroad. There'll be others there, other people retreating. We'll find some horses". 

"Jaime, we'll both die if we do that. The odds are too against us". 

"When did you ever care about odds? You dragged me through the Riverlands while I was missing a hand, managed to fight off every threat that came our way and then got me all the way to King's Landing! How is this any different?"

 _That_ got her silenced. Slowly, she reached out and wrapped her hand around his golden fingers. With a grunt, Brienne got to her feet, giving several deep and shaky breaths as she tried to steady herself. 

There were no words exchanged and they began to walk, slower than they had and with every few steps marked by a pained grunt from Brienne. Jaime led the way, letting her lean against him to help her along. The feeling of her warm breath against his neck was a jolt to his blood and a jolt to his feet and they gradually began to speed up, through the fields. 

They came upon the road soon afterwards, like a brown snake cutting through the leagues of snow covered countryside. They made there way along it for a what felt like another league before the sounding of hooves tramping along the ground made Jaime's ears perk up. Both he and Brienne turned to see the form of a horse trotting up the road, seeming to pay no heed to the cold or the dead man sitting in the saddle on its back. With a strangled cry of relief, the two of them hobbled over as the horse stopped at the sight of them.

From the furs and the long braid that snaked along his back, Jaime could tell that the corpse slouched over the animals back was one of the Targareyn Queen's dothraki. He could also judge from the hatchet sticking out of his back that the horse lord was quite thoroughly dead. 

The act of actually getting the man out of his saddle proved to be somewhat more of a challenge. Brienne kept a hold on the horses bridle while Jaime tugged the corpse off, working the still feet out of its stirrups and then dumping the whole body on the side of the road. Soon they were galloping off up the road, with Brienne wrapping her arms tight around his waist.

He couldn't tell how long they rode for. The sky began to lighten but the snow kept up, washing over the two of them and coating them in layers of white. The longer they rode, the more Jaime came to realise how tired he was. His eyes felt as heavy as his hand and the gentle bobbing of the horse was, for whatever reason, soothing. 

He didn't mean to fall asleep. He meant to blink but it seemed the second his eyelids closed, sleep enveloped him whole...

King's Landing, he was back in King's Landing, standing in the gardens of the Red Keep. All around, people walked and drank and ate and talked. Looking down, he saw that he was covered head to toe in his Kingsguard armour, armour he hadn't worn for close to a year now. The day was bright, the sky a brilliant blue and the sun warm and shining. There were no clouds, no snow was falling and he wasn't freezing. It was almost heaven.

That was until the screams started. Then, he was running, pushing people aside to get to the table. He remembered now, it was all the same. The screams, the choking, Cersei's cries, they all echoed in his mind. He had to get there first, had to help, had to do something! 

It was all as he remembered. Cersei was on her knees, wailing over their sons body, just as it was four years ago. But then it began to snow. The sun and the sky disappeared behind a wall of dark grey clouds, all of which unleashed waves and waves of snowflakes. He tried to scream for Cersei but she just kept wailing, crying and crying until the wight cut her throat. Jaime couldn't move, couldn't protect his sister only cry out as she was swarmed by dozens of the undead and they tore off her gown and stabbed rusty knives into her naked flesh.

He kept calling and crying until he felt the sword slide into his back and Brienne looked down on him with eyes as blue as sapphires. 

He awoke and saw fire and a shock of red hair. 

 

 


	4. Sansa

The torches were just beginning to dim when Tyrion came back. He appeared from around the corner of the crypt and with a small shake of his head, Sansa felt a deep sense of resignation wash over her. 

"You found no one? You're sure?"

He nodded again, more vigorously this time. "I checked every crevice. We're the only ones here". 

_"The only ones left... a Lannister, a Stark..."_

There came a sniffle from behind her. 

_"And what is he?"_

Little Sam looked up at her with eyes a bright vibrant blue that clashed with the darkness of the crypts. His little mouth was set in a small frown that, along with the faded streaks of tears lining his cheeks and dried snot beneath his nostrils, gave a good indication of his mood. It wasn't far off Sansa's own. 

"Mama..." He mumbled lowly, his thumb just at the tip of his lips. "Where Mama..."

Tyrion seemed to ignore the meek questioning. "There's no bodies though, not a single one anywhere except the ones we...".

"Killed?" Sansa finished for him. 

"Took care of". The dwarf corrected, looking around the silent halls. "But yes, the only things left in here are bodies. The others... raised back up, no doubt. You know, this Night King, he doesn't seem particularly choosy over who fights for him. Men, women, children, old, sick... do you think even he might turn his nose up at a dwarf?"

The Lady of Winterfell's mouth dropped slightly and she made the shock known. "I hardly think this is a good time for jokes!" 

Already Tyrion was holding up his hands, as if in surrender, and shaking his head resignedly. "I know, I know... What else am I good for though? I'm hardly a good fighter, you saw that". He hefted up the dragonglass dagger in his gloved hand. 

Oh she had seen it. When they had run out from behind the tomb, daggers held high. Almost immediately, one skeletal wight garbed in what once might have been beautifully crafted armour, had knocked down Tyrion and began to scratch at the dwarf, intent on adding even more scars to his face. It had been up to her to jam her blade down into the back of her ancestors head before ripping it out when it crumbled into a scattering of bones and rusted metal. 

Tyrion had staggered to his feet, gave her a nod of thanks before running out again at the sound of a particularly sharp scream among the snarls of the dead and the cries of the living. Sansa had watched him stab another wight in the thigh just as it was about to leap down on an old woman cowering at the feet of a statue of a long dead King. 

That had been her last good and clear memory. After that, it had all devolved into a flurry of whimpers, screams and stabbing. 

By the time she had realised that none of it mattered, she was soaked to every inch of her body in sweat and her arms throbbed from the incessant swinging of her dagger. All around her, there was death. 

The older people had been the ones to die first, their legs too frail to carry them away from the shambling figures who proved to be their final fate. The smaller children, those not instantly dragged away, they had been... Gods, it turned her stomach just to think back to when she had first caught a glimpse of a small body. Those that had survived in those final moments of light were either being chased around the airy halls of the crypts, pursued frenziedly by the ancient Starks, or were huddled in the corners. She had seen the unmistakable form of Varys in one such hiding place, amongst a gaggle of others. 

That had been when Tyrion had taken her hand and dragged her away from where she had stood observing the chaos. Her hand had been limp in his grip, until she saw where they were rushing to. 

Her fathers face looked stoic, just as she had told the carvers to make it. Even there, amongst all the pain, she felt a twinge of love in her heart when she glimpsed it. That was until Tyrion had dropped her hand, waddled to its side and then gripped the edge of lid. With a grunt, he tried to push.

Sansa had just stared at him, only moving when he had turned to her and barked out. "Help me with this!"

As one, they had begun to push the tomb open, heaving with all their might. It wasn't easy, far from it, the stone was sturdy and strong and the whole thing designed well. No matter how hard they strained, they couldn't get it open, only managing a few good inches at most. Just when she expected for a great-great-great grandmother was about to pounce down on them, Sansa felt another pair of hands rest on the stone. 

Gilly stood by her, face red with exertion already as she pushed with all her might, her little son clutching at her dress. The wildling girl looked and saw her staring.

"Quickly, push!"

With the three of them putting every ounce of strength they had into their arms, the great stone creaked open, at least enough to allow someone to squeeze in. 

"Get in!" Tyrion ordered. 

"Please, Lady Stark, hurry!" Gilly said. 

She had looked at both them as if they were well and trully mad. 

 _"I can't go in there... father... father's in there"._ She thought wildly. 

She could just hear him calling her name but her eyes were only focused solely on the darkness pooled in the tomb. In that darkness, she knew what was in there. Her mind went back years and she was standing in King's Landing again, looking up at her fathers rotting head. Even now she could hear the fat black flies buzzing around it, his slack jaw and glazed eyes. 

It was then she felt a soft hand on her shoulder. Gilly was looking at her with large, pleading eyes and her son was much the same. 

Immediately she swung a leg over the tomb, reached out her hands and hefted up the young wildling boy up by his arm pits, helped by his mother, all whilst Tyrion urged her on with increasingly worried words. Finally the small boy was in and Gilly stepped forward, reaching out one shaky hand. 

Then, with a blur of brown, Gilly was thrown to the floor with a snarl and scream. 

Rickon Stark tore into her neck, just as Shaggydog would have once done, before drawing his head back up with a spray of blood. His eyes glowed a blue so bright they outshone the torches still crackling all along the crypts halls. Tyrion had stumbled away in shock as he was stared down by the youngest Stark child, his dagger clattering to the floor. 

_"No, no, no, please don't make me... oh please don't make me..."_

But she had. She scrambled over the edge of the tomb and stabbed her little brother in the back just as he had been about to lunge forward and tear into Tyrion. The dragonglass bit through the simple but elegant grey tunic they had laid Rickon to rest in, and pierced his pale flesh just as easily. The boy had let out another unearthly screech then, rearing up to let out his final howl before crumpling to the floor. 

It had been over in a second but to Sansa it felt as though the world had stopped. The screams, the roars, the distant clash of swords above, it all faded as she stared at her brothers corpse. All the pain of seeing him shot down like an elk in the woods came flooding back and she felt the tears beginning to prick at her eyes.

Dully, she had felt Tyrion take her hand in his and lead her back into the tomb. Then they had closed it up, bathing it in darkness with a slight bit of light to illuminate inside. She remembered Little Sam crying and Tyrion doing his best to quieten him down, for all the good it did. She didn't care. All Sansa concerned herself with was trying her damnedest to ignore the feeling of the body she was laying against. 

She couldn't help but think back to when she was younger, when one of her dresses had been torn in one of the many little fights she had had with Arya. While her little sister stomped off to her room at their mothers admonishments, she had sat and began to cry, tears trickling down her face, when her father had come to her. He had spoken to her softly, gently scolding and comforting her at the same time. At the end of it her tears had dried and she wrapped her arms around her father.

Silence descended down onto the three of them as they lay shivering in the tomb, Little Sam's cries petering out as the screeches from outside died down. They all sat in this icy silence, the only noises their own breathing and the soft footsteps of the wights outside. At one point there came the sound of splintering wood and the pattering of dozens of feet up the stairs. 

They stayed there for what must have been a few hours at least, listening for any sign of an undead monster about to rip open the lid of the stone coffin and rip into the three of them. It never came. 

"Where mama?" Little Sam repeated again before firmly suckling on his thumb. 

"She's- She's not here right now". Tyrion softly said, glancing at Sansa as she sat in an unblinking silence. "I'm afraid... well, she might be away for a good while". 

That didn't seem to much for the little boy. Instead his breath hitched when he spoke up. "Want mama now". 

The dwarf replied gently. "I know but... she can't right now". 

"No, want to go to mama now!" He reiterated. 

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak again before Sansa cut in harshly. "Well, you can't so there use in asking!" 

The boy opened and closed his mouth, looking at her with wide eyes still moist with unspent tears. Then he looked down at his feet, falling into a sullen silence. Tyrion eyed her warily before glancing to the stairs that lead up to the surface. 

"You want to go out?" Sansa questioned. 

She didn't even need to see him nod to know it. Not that she could really blame him. The air down here was stuffy with the smoke from the embers of the torches, with the rank smell of death around every corner.  _"It's preferable to getting ripped to pieces by the dead though"._

He didn't seem to think that way, waddling over to where he dropped his dagger, slowly stepping over the dark stains of blood marking the stone. Tyrion picked it up, seemingly taking a moment to look over the dark metal.

"We can hardly stay down here forever. There's naught to eat but rats and naught to drink except a few last drops of wine". 

"You don't know what's up there. It might not be safe to leave yet". Sansa argued. 

"It's been hours. If what is said about the White Walkers is true, they're not like to be hosting a victory feast". 

"The White Walkers might not be here but there could still be dead straggling behind the main army". 

"Then we'll avoid them. If we can't-" He lifted the dragonglass knife. "-we still have these". 

 _"A dwarf, a woman and a child against the undead"._ She thought, shaking her head. When had life gotten this mad?

He was right though. 

Sansa stood up, drawing her own dagger from where it was sheathed in one of the pockets sewn into her gown. Just looking at it brought her thoughts to Arya. The last time they had seen each other, the young girl had a bow slung over one shoulder and was urging (no, _ordering_ ) her to get down to the "safety" of the crypts. Was she alright? Had she survived when the walls fell? Bran, what about Bran? Did Theon protect him, as he had promised to? All of these questions swirled themselves around Sansa's mind like ice in wine. 

With a shake of her head, she followed behind Tyrion as he waddled up the stairs, looking behind her to make sure that Little Sam was trailing behind them, still looking sullen.

The heavy ironwood door was nothing more than splinters now and the halls of Winterfell were dark. Any torches that may have lit them had been snuffed out hours ago. The Imp was the first one out, treading lightly and with his dagger held in front of him. When he found no apparent threat, he motioned for the two of them  to follow in behind. 

Together, the three of them slowly made their way through the silent hallways until coming to an iron door, now lying ajar with mounds of fresh snow already built up around it. Beyond the world was a bright white. 

"Keep close". Sansa murmured to Little Sam. It seemed even the boy was unnerved by this deathly silence. He gave a small nod and huddled close. 

They emerged into the courtyard to behold a scene of absolute carnage. Bodies and bodies piled high in great mounds covered the yard, hills of dead flesh. The rank smell of death and decay was laid heavy here, filling her nostrils and making her force back a gag. This wasn't the first time Sansa had seen such a slaughter, the battle against Ramsey all those months ago had made sure of that, but it still wasn't easy. Tyrion, apparently, was in the same boat as her as he took  a slight step back, muttering "By the Gods..." under his breath as his eyes roved over everything before him. Little Sam gave a whimper and clung to her skirt but she shook him off and began to walk. Her focus was solely on the great red weirwood tree.

All around, her home was in ruins, with bodies laying everywhere, whole sections of the wall having been blown wide open and small plumes of blue fire still crackling in the rubble. Snow was falling from the cloudy morning sky, covering many of the corpses in a thin blanket of white flakes. 

The godswood, like the rest of the castle, was quiet. Where it had been alive with bird song, the squeaks of small hares scampering through the brush and splashes of fish in small ponds the day before, now the only sound was her feet trudging through the snow. As she got closer, Sansa broke into a full on sprint as the heartree got closer and closer.

All around the bone white tree were charred bodies, wearing rags and clutching rusty weapons. Wights.

_"Theon and his men... he kept his promise"._

A small flicker of affection crossed her heart, only for it to die when she saw what sat beside the great tree. 

Bran's wheelchair was empty, with only a few drops of blood darkening its cushion to indicate that any one had actually sat there. In front was a dagger, its blade shimmering and ornate hilt gleaming in the morning light. The sight of both of them made Sansa's knees weak and with every step she took her leg's felt more and more as if they were as heavy as stone. Finally, when she stood just a few inches before the chair, she collapsed. Both her knees and her tears. 

That was where Tyrion found her, hunched over her little brothers seat, great racking sobs shaking her all over.

It wasn't _fair_! After everything that had happened, everything they had all gone through, everything  _she_ had gone through... Why was it that the moment they were all back together again they were all forced apart? 

_"I'm right back where I started... All those years, when I thought I was the last of the Starks... Now I am really am"._

She felt a rough hand on her back and she turned with wide and teary eyes. The dwarf was looking over her with eyes awash with sympathy.

"I-I'm sor-" He began.

"Don't even bother". She replied, voice thick with tears. "Just don't, Tyrion..."

He stood there for a few moments after, silent. Then, when her tears had started to fin out, he spoke up. "We don't know if they're truly gone... Bran has his abilities, maybe the Night King... maybe he took him alive". 

Gods, she wanted to believe him. Wanted to hope against hope that her little brother was alive. But even he was, she didn't want to imagine what the Walkers were doing to him and what they planned to do with him. And Arya... she had no powers that the White Walkers would want. They didn't care about stealth or sublety, they were like a great undead hammer to shatter the world of men. 

"Sansa, I'm sorry, I truly am, but... we can't stay here. Not for long".

"Why not!? The dead have moved on, there's bound to still be wine here if you're so-"

"You can't really believe that's what I-"

"Leave me Tyrion! Just go back to your Queen and let me have this". She rounded on him.

His thick eyebrows scrunched together. "You know that I can't let you do that. You might very well be the heir to House Stark, you have a duty to the rest of the North, to lead them. Especially now".

Just the mention of duty made her feel sick. After all that had happened, she just felt so, so tired. After months of trying to rebuild the North to have a chance of real independence, now she sat in the ruins of her home and her people and yet she still couldn't escape the obligations placed upon her, to the North and the Vale and what felt like the whole of the Seven Kingdoms.

The Lady of Winterfell turned away from Tyrion, tracing her figures over the cushion on Bran's wheelchair. It was a cloudy grey, with white stitching along its borders. The colours of the Stark banner.

A sudden cawing broke her focus on the furnishing. Above her head, a raven perched itself on one of the weirwoods branches. It looked down on her like a black spectre, sitting atop the pure white of the wood and amongst the warm red of the leaves. Was it looking at her? Sansa couldn't tell. It's little head cocked this way and that and its eyes flicked to everything. There was something about it though... It's dark pupils flashed suddenly and only for a moment but Sansa felt a bizarre sense of what could only be described as familiarity when they looked to her.

Then it opened its beak and spoke. 

 **" _Run_!"** It squawked out, flapping its wings as if to empathise the point. 

_"Listening to a raven's calls... I must really have gone mad"._

But listen she still did, as the raven cried out. ** _"Snow! Snow! Snow!"_**

"It's observant at least". The Imp quipped from behind. "Maybe it escaped from the cage in the master's office?"  

 _ **"Run!"**_ The bird repeated one last time. With a flap of its wings, it soared off, gliding through the godswood and over a wall, out of sight. 

Sansa shook her head. She didn't know why she had been so mesmerized, why she had put so much focus on it, but it stirred something in her. She thought to what it had trilled out. 

 _"Run... and snow"._  

She had never really believed in omens, not as much as her mother had, but it was hard not to see the meaning behind the words. It would have been all too easy to accept Tyrion's opinion, that it was just one of the raven's Maester Wolkan had kept in a cage in his office. But there was something different about it. Something behind those dark little eyes. It wanted her to leave.

So, Sansa stood up from where she knelt and picked up Arya's dagger from where it lay in the snow. Running a finger over its ornate hilt, she then tucked it into her pocket. Tyrion looked up at her, Little Sam trailing in behind him. 

An hour later, the three of them stood at the shattered gates of Winterfell. She had returned to her quarters, changing into a thick woollen skirt, tunic and fur cloak along with a pair of hardy leather boots. They ransacked the kitchens afterwards, taking what they thought they would need most. Now they all stood looking out towards the frozen fields, sacks of salt beef and vegetables thrown over their shoulders, Tyrion even lugging a skin of wine under one arm. 

"Now that we're really going, I can't help but feel sheepish". Tyrion opined. 

"You want to stay?" Sansa replied, keeping her eyes on the white country beyond. 

"No, we both have duties to attend. You to your people and I... I have a duty to my Queen". 

"Got to find papa". Little Sam piped in. The boy was now set on his goal of finding his father now.

Tyrion motioned to the outside world. "After you, My Lady". 

With one last long look to the round towers of her home, Sansa began to walk. 


	5. Davos

The hare lifted it's head up from the snow, sniffling at the cold air. Then, it turned to look around to its side, dipping one ear in what might have been confusion. Davos couldn't blame it. Seeing two grown men courched beside a tree would make anyone just a bit puzzled. It wasn't running though, unlike the last one they had observed from a distance. Just as they needed. 

Brenn slowly got to his feet, nocking an arrow to his bow all the while. He notched it back and watched his target for just a moment before releasing. It took no more than a second or two for the arrow to go whistling through the air, flying straight and true into the rabbits side. The little animal gave a yelping squeak as it was impaled, falling and dying all within what couldn't have been more than a few seconds. 

Letting out a breath he didn't even know he had been holding, Davos got to his feet, giving the archer a pat on the back before trudging through the fields to their prize. Picking it up from the snow and ripping the arrow roughly from its flesh, he turned to look as Brenn approached, bow now slung over one shoulder.

"One rabbit for six men". The archer mused, looking over his kill with a critical eye. 

"Seems we'll be having to share then". The smuggler said.

"Sharing?" Brenn muttered mockingly. "Well then I reckon we'd ought to get the haunches then. Best part of the animal I find".

"Oh?" Davos replied, raising an eyebrow. "What gives us that honour?"

"Well, we are the ones who caught it. The killer should get the choicest cut, my da always used to say". He gave a shrug of his narrow shoulders.

"Well, I'm sure your father was a good and wise man. However, I'm of the mind that we share all of it".

The archer gave a scowl. "Why? They're all sitting on their backsides back over there whilst we do all the real work".

"We're all hungry. It'd be best if we don't get into fights over scraps of meat just yet, we'll all need to be in form when we move on". 

Brenn gave a grudging nod. "You're probably right. Though you misjudged my da a bit, mind you".

"I often do misjudge, I must admit". Then, the Onion Knight hefted up the still body of the hare. "I had best get this back".

"Aye, get a fire going if you can. I think I'll stay out here a while longer, see if I can find anything juicier than that little thing scurrying around. Might even bag an elk". He replied with a grin of crooked teeth. He wasn't a handsome man to be sure, what with his large nose, small green eyes and hair shaved down to a bristle, but he was a good sort. Amiable, if a bit on the grim side.

Davos returned the smile with a nod. "I'll be waiting". He then turned and tramped off, boots burying themselves in the snow with every step.

The storm had finally stopped yesterday evening, the white flakes ceasing their relentless bombardment onto the countryside and leaving the whole world covered in a pale sparkling blanket. It might have been beautiful, if not for the fact that it was utterly bloody freezing. The air nipped at Davos's cheeks, stinging them with their wintery breath. It could be worse of course, he thought as he saw what was up ahead, he could be the poor bugger they passed on their way out here.

He had been a Mazin man, judging from the chequy badge sewn onto his tunic. He sat, propped up against the remnants of a roadside wall and clutching at a wound to his side. They had only realised he was dead when Davos had kneeled down beside him and given him a shake of the shoulder. He had slumped to the side, into the snow and there, in the chilly winter sun, the former smuggler could see that the man's skin was so pale it rivalled the ground he was now lying on.

"Frozen". Brenn had rather unnecessarily pointed out.

"Mm. A nasty way to go, to be sure". Had been his reply. 

After he had stood, Brenn had taken the opportunity to start rifling through the man's pockets. At a look from Davos, he justified it with. "Well. it don't look like he'll be needing it". He found a small pouch containing a single silver stag and a few coppers. 

The body was just as they had left, pale and still. It didn't sit well with Davos to just leave him splayed out in the snow but with no shovel and with dirt as hard as stone, there was no way he was going to be able to dig a grave. So, he instead walked on by, trying not to glance at the man's face, frozen forever into a grimace. 

As he tramped along the road, Davos caught the sight of the black husk sitting at the end of it. The hovel was small, just a single room besides an abandoned sheep pen. A shrivelled skeleton of a tree also sprouted beside, branches weighed down by fresh snow.

Leaned up against that tree now, Ser Armon Roff raised his longsword in greeting. "My Lord! A good hunt?"

"A good hunt would be if I was hauling an elk over my shoulder". Davos replied with a scoff. 

"Hah, well I'll just be glad for some fresh meat". The knight said with a smile as he began to hobble over.  

"Is your leg acting up?" Inquired the Onion Lord. 

"Oh no, no, it's just a bit... ah, sore is all". Pain flashed across Armon's face, causing his smile to dip into a grimace for just a moment. 

_"Hm, no doubt. Just a day and night after taking a spear through the leg and he's already walking. You can't doubt the lad's will"._

"Where has Brenn got to?" Armon then asked, looking past Davos to presumably catch a glimpse of the archer. 

"Still out hunting. I'm sure he'll come running when he smells the meat cooking though". 

"Aye, and with our luck, a pack of wolves looking for a meal of their own". 

The knight laughed and slapped him on the back. "Well, if they do, we'll drive them off. If we managed to get away from Winterfell then I reckon the Gods are with us yet". 

"I'd settle with a pouch of finger bones..." Davos muttered beneath his breath as he stepped past Armon and began to walk towards the shepherds hut, looking back to the knight. "I'll get this cooking, give a shout if you see anything".

"Of course". He replied, taking his place back against the tree.

The interior of the hut was as silent as when he had left it, with the only sounds being the crack of rotted hay beneath his boots and the soft breathing of the three men sheltering there. Though they had put aside their spiked helmets, shields and spears, their skin marked them as Unsullied. 

"Everything alright?" Davos greeted, to the expected silence in return.

He didn't know what else he expected to get. The Unsullied, despite their namesake, were sullen. The three of them sat in complete quiet, staring ahead and ruminating on Seven knew what. The worst was their commander. 

Grey Worm was leaned up against a barrel and scowling at the ceiling. Like his comrades he didn't respond to Davos' greeting, only glancing at the old smuggler as he trudged in, flicking his eyes to the rabbit slung over his back and dripping blood into the dirt. He had been like this since they had all scrambled in here, a day and night ago, only speaking to his fellow Unsullied in their queer tongue and ignoring the three Westerosi completely. 

Not that the eunuch could be blamed for such a thing. Everything he fought for were, for all his knowledge, gone. His queen, his men...

_"And that's not even mentioning his eye"._

Another thing taken from the lad. A strip of cloth was wrapped around Grey Worm's head, covering his right eye completely. A good portion of the ad-hoc bandage was stained a deep red where it pressed against the empty socket the soldier now sported. Three jagged scars trailed down the right side of his face as well, still red with unspilled blood. 

"How are you holding up, lad?" Davos asked, trying to get as much cheer in his voice as he could. 

"Surviving". Came the lads reply. 

"How's your eye?"

"Hurts". Grey Worm croaked out. 

"Ah, apologies for that. I did what I could but I'm afraid I'm no maester". The smuggler reasoned.

"This is obvious". 

Davos couldn't help but laugh, a small chuckle as he sat down against the wall, drawing his dagger from the scabbard at his belt. Then, with a simple thrust, he cut into the rabbit's flesh. Skinning the animal took a minute or two, and left it pink and bloody on its furs.

Ser Armon came in just as the kindling was spitting up its first licks of flames, the dark twigs crackling and spitting. 

"Ah, a good hot fire! Just the thing I need just about now". The Knight said, closing the rickety door behind him as he stepped inself and wiped the snow off of his boots. "Grey Worm!"

The Unsullied commander opened his good eye to look questioningly at Armon. "Yes?"

"It's one of your lads turn to keep watch outside. I’ve been out there all day". 

Although his mouth slid down into a frown, Grey Worm turned to one of his fellows sitting against the hut wall and spoke in their own tongue, though it was obviously a command from his tone. Without a word, the Unsullied soldier got to his feet, picked up his shield and spear and headed out into the waiting cold. 

Ser Armon slouched against the hovel wall, unbuckling the steel gorget around his neck and loosening the sword belt around his waist. 

The rabbit was soon roasting over the fire, skin crackling as the flames seared away at its flesh. Davos watched over it closely, making sure that no one part burned and blackened to a crisp.

_"That would be just right, first bit of food and I burn it"._

Vaguely over the sound of charring skin and the small roar of the fire, he could the sloshing of liquid. A glance to his side confirmed that it was Ser Armon, nursing a skin of ale in his hands and taking a swig every now and then. The Knight could probably feel him staring, as he looked up. Wordlessly, he reached out and offered the skin to Davos. The smuggler took it with a grateful nod before taking a long swig. The amber liquid dripped down his beard and he wiped it away as he handed the alcohol back. 

"How many do you think we lost? In Winterfell?" Armon suddenly asked. 

The question came out of a left field and left Davos stumped for a moment. How many had they lost? The Northmen, the Knights of the Vale, the Unsullied, they made up a great army. An army that no doubt lost many. That wasn't even counting the Dothraki, who were an army in and of themselves. He honestly didn't know. 

So he said that. Armon gave a small nod, seeming to grimly ruminate on what the smuggler said before taking another swig of rum. 

Grease was dripping from the rabbits roasted flesh as Davos took it off the makeshift spit. After wiping away the animals blood from his knife, the Onion Knight plunged the blade into the hare's seared flesh, cutting through to make a good slice for all of them.

His teeth had just bit into the cooked meat when there came a shout from outside, a warning in one of the harsh tongue's of Essos.

All four men inside the hut looked up as one, their meagre supper forgotten. Another shout came, even more threatening this time. Davos stepped forward, drawing his sword from where it lay in his sword belt on the ground, before gently pushing the rickety old door open. 

There, stumbling towards them, was Brenn. 

Davos gave a grimace at what he was seeing. The man's stomach was open, the pink and red of his guts standing out among the dark of his clothing and the white of the snow. In his hands, the Archer clutched his dagger as tight as a viper. Then came more figures, coming out of the shining white of the snow covered landscape like spirits. All of them were in states of decay, whether it be rotted skin or a whole limb missing, and clutched weapons in their dead hands.

"Damn..." Muttered Amere.

_"Damn indeed"._

 


End file.
